


Practice

by TheEarlyKat



Series: Warden Leverette [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: And it's not even pro-chantry, Levy's just a baby enchanter, M/M, Someone help this bunny, The only pro-chantry thing I'll ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 11:26:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: Leverette attempts to teach himself magic through the use of fire twirling. Zevran is not impressed.





	

His magic was out of control. It was everything the Circle had ever told him - without the proper supervision he was a danger to himself and to everyone around him. Without constant vigilance there was none to guide him in the right direction. There was no strict ruling order to keep him in line. There was no discipline in the wilds, no level of reference. Any and every attack elicited a different reaction - one darkspawn ambush could leave nothing but ashes behind while the next resulted in only minor surface burns. He was out of control and there was little in the way that could stop him if he lost what loose grip he had on his magic. No templar would be there to Smite him and freeze him where he stood or Silence his very veins of the mana that ran through them.

There was always Alistair, Leverette supposed. Despite only minimal templar training, the Chantry was keen on teaching Smites and Silences as soon as they could - Alistair would certainly have the ability to keep an eye on him, but not the mindset and it made him hesitant to ask. Morrigan was a mage that eased magic around herself as easily as she eased the air down to her lungs in a breath, but her chaotic forces were far different from his needs and her demeanor outright scared him into tossing the idea away.

It was up to himself, then, and he was at a loss as where to start. Certainly, poking his staff at a sapling wasn’t going to help, but the feeling of solid wood in his hands and the play of the muscles beneath his skin that it took to wield it did much to ease his whirling mind. It wasn’t a magical exercise, shifting his staff from on hand to another could be done by any man’s fingers, but it was one the Circle taught all new apprentices. A slow introduction to the schedules of the tower, and if it was the control of the Circle he needed at the moment, he’d take the practiced motions.

A soft tap against the sapling before pulling the staff close to himself, whirling it high over his head to exchange it to his other before extending it once more to the tree to tap it again. The motions grew in complexity as he remembered them - stepping into the motions for a stronger hit, using only his shoulders to shift the staff to either side of his body, letting his mana run down the length of the wood, sparking and spitting until the end of the staff was neatly engulfed in flames. He was absorbed in it, watching the flames for any odd flicker of the spell gone awry as he added in another step to the dance that he didn’t notice grey mist of early dawn had cleared into true morning, and that the sound of birdsong was accompanied by the flap of a tent opening.

“What is this you’re doing?” Levy whirled on his heel on the turn he’d already been in the process of making and leveled his staff at the assassin creeping up behind him rather than shifting it behind his back, as the motion should have been. The wood was smooth his hand and it followed the step even more so, gliding in his grip to settle its weight into a solid stance. Fire popped and Zevran blew away an ember that floated too close to himself for his liking.

“Practicing?” he ventured. His confidence wilted with the easy smirk he was given and his fingers felt clumsy as he dropped his staff, letting the butt dig into the ground and snuff out its spell.

“Is that what they are calling it these days,” Zevran hummed.

Leverette pulled his staff back to him as the elf approached, defensive, putting it between himself and Zevran as if it could stave off any further remarks. His steps had been far from perfect, he knew, but he hadn’t been attempting perfection in the first place. Familiarity, control - and he was pleased with the fact that he’d managed it - but not perfection. “What would you call it?” His muttered remark was out of his mouth before he could bite his tongue.

“A children’s game.” Levy blinked, and in the same span of time, the staff was torn from his grip and he was watching Zevran bounce it in his hands, testing the weight, before tossing it over his head. He watched it spin, eyes tracking it as fell back towards the ground. Zevran caught it with one hand, moving the momentum from his hands to his shoulders to whirl it across his chest and around his neck before finishing the move with a tight spin of his own. There was still a light in the elf’s eyes that reflected his smile and he held the staff out. “You can set it it alight without it being in your possession, yes?”

“I, ah - yes.” Levy licked his lips and with a curl of his fingers, both ends erupted into flames. He winced as they sparked, hot enough to feel the heat against even his own face, and breathed out slow, letting his magic flow out with it. The flames licked their way down the staff to curl around only the ends. He inhaled, slow again, and let them grow until they reached an impressive but manageable height.

Control. Zevran certainly had his fair share of it. The staff was never not at the mercy of his hands and he shaped its path through the air, spinning it slow at first and hurried the next, forcing Levy to match his pace, to keep the flames soft as Zevran curved a gentle arc around him and high to out-compete the wind as it tossed above his head again - always fluctuating, never forgiving.

He was sweating by the time Zevran was finished, his fingers cramped and a slight headache pounding its way across his forehead. A faint ice spell coated his hands in a casing of cold and he sighed in relief as he dragged them down his face. “What was _that_?” he asked.

“Practice, mi amor.”


End file.
